


It Seemed Too Young

by rowofstars



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Kissing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:56:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor discovers that it doesn't have to be Christmas to follow Christmas tradition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Seemed Too Young

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://2nd2ndalto.livejournal.com/profile)[2nd2ndalto](http://2nd2ndalto.livejournal.com/) and the Secret Santa fic exchange at [](http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/profile)[then_theres_us](http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/). Hope you like it!

It’s stuck, rather absurdly, to the trim over the kitchen door with cello tape. He sees it a moment before he crosses the threshold and stops, spinning on his heel and striding quickly away, choosing the chair the furthest away to be safe. He can just picture it happening – Jackie Tyler catching him beneath it and grabbing his face in both hands, her lips too full and wet as she smashes them against his. She’d smile and laugh as he wiped a hand over his mouth. He’d probably have to gulp down an entire glass of eggnog just to rid himself of the pasty taste of her lipstick.

The thought makes him pause and stare at the cookie he was nibbling, his appetite suddenly absent.

Later, he stands near the gaping hole in the wall, insulation dangling like cobwebs near his temple, and leans casually with his shoulder against the doorframe, peering into the kitchen as Rose rinses the plates. It’s there just above his head, the innocent little _viscum album_ , the perfect excuse to touch his lips to hers again. He can hide behind tradition and superstition, fun and Christmas spirit, pretending that every atom of this new body isn’t vibrating with love for her.

He wonders if the tang of the vortex still lingers on her tongue.

She turns and smiles, bright but still a little shy, hesitant of this new him, all lanky limbs and really great hair. His breath catches when she steps forward, his shoulders straighten, hands slipping from his pockets as his tongue flicks out to wet his lips, anticipating. But then she dips her head and slides past him, moving into the living room to check on her mother, sleeping off what will be a fantastic Boxing Day hangover.

He sighs and lifts the paper crown from his head, folding it twice before he slips it into his pocket.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Here it is again, seemingly innocuous.

A little sprig of smooth evergreen leaves clinging to a woody stem and sprouting out of a dip in the shimmery coral like it belongs there. He wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he hadn’t squelched one of the waxy white berries under his left trainer. The little pearls are clumped together in groups of three, four and five, ready to be plucked, as tradition dictates, with the privilege of a kiss.

He’d settle for just one.

He frowns, eyeing the plant with suspicion and a tinge of fear, contemplating how and why it came to be perched over the doorway to the library, and finding no obvious answers. Perhaps they picked it up on Mistilteinn, a seed carried in on her jacket or his tie, unnoticed as they ran for their lives, ducking the swift, but thankfully inaccurate projectiles of the locals. But that was weeks (months?) ago and surely he would have noticed it before now? And it’s not hardly Christmas yet, although it is always Christmas somewhere and when, he supposes.

He tells himself that he should get rid of it immediately because it’s poisonous and hemi-parasitic and if it makes it into one of the gardens it will take root in the trees and stunt their growth, and really what kind of horticulturist would he be if he went around the universe with –

“Doctor?”

He startles and turns to find Rose staring at him, her eyebrows raised and lips pursed in amusement. She shuffles towards him in a pair of pink flannel pajama pants, dotted with butterflies, the cuffs pooling around her feet, and a pink t-shirt with a rainbow on the front.

“Rose! I was um – just, ah – checking the uh –” His words get lost somewhere between the shallow V of her top and the shine of her eyes.

“Library?” she offers, lifting a foot to pull at a thick stripped sock.

“Yes!” he exclaims, grinning and waving a finger as if he were making a very important point.

“Right, library. That – that is absolutely what this is, yes.”

“Making sure no books escape then?” The corner of her mouth twitches and her eyes dart up to the mistletoe dangling above his head. “Or just lurking about until someone comes along to kiss you?”

“Uh, well,” he starts, tugging on his ear as he looks from his pajama clad companion to the dimly lit room and back, “that is, I was just uh –”

She looks up at him expectant and curious, smiling slightly. He’s flustered and it amuses her more than it probably should, but she’s not letting it go this time, not hurrying past him, not letting him walk away. It’s not as if they haven’t done this before, but she wasn’t exactly in complete control of her faculties at the time, sharing too much cranial space with a flap of skin and pair of eyes that called herself the last human. She thought maybe that would be the proverbial straw, the end to this silly dance they’ve been doing since, well, since they danced.

He looks away abruptly, tilting his head up at the offending plant and frowning again. “You know, I don’t think the custom is applicable outside of Christmas.”

“So?” she replies, eyes lowered. She extends her hand to hook her pinky finger around his, pulling it towards her. He curls his hand around the tiny digit, unable to help himself when it comes to the spaces between her fingers. His knuckles brush the soft cotton of her shirt and he stares at it with an odd fascination. When she looks up at him, his eyes are wide and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly.

“Rose, I –”

She looks down again, slips her hand into his and holds it against her warm body. “Time machine, yeah?” Glancing up she can see his eyes are riveted to their joined hands. She gives him a squeeze and he meets her gaze.

She presses her lips together before she speaks. “It’s always Christmas somewhere.” His eyes widen and she smiles. “So let’s go find it.”

She pushes off the wall, stepping into his space. Her hand goes slack, allowing him the moment to pull away if he wants, but he doesn’t. His fingers relax against her skin, thumb sliding over her palm and up the inside of her wrist. He leans into her, moving his hand slowly, up her arm and then over her shoulder. The other stays at his side, tightened into a fist as if a part of him is still vainly trying to resist this.

She brushes her fingers against his tie, tracing the blue swirls, before tilting her head up and meeting his gaze. Her breath catches, her mouth opens, and she tries not to say anything, but he’s right _there_. She exhales his name and closes her eyes just before he touches his lips to hers, a whisper of contact so fleeting she half expects to find him on the other side of the room, nonchalantly studying the spine of a book, when she opens her eyes again.

His palm spreads over her collarbone, pushing her back until she meets the flat of the doorjamb, and then finally his fist opens, fingers lifting and stretching into her hair as he kisses her again. Her mouth parts and she’s pulling at his shirt, trying to keep him close, and lets her tongue brush into his mouth. He makes a sound, low and maybe desperate too, and there’s no taste, just the cool slide of his lips.

Toothpaste, he finally decides, wintermint or some such, and underneath it tea and chicken and pralines and cream ice cream. It should be revolting honestly, all that jumbled together, but it’s so wonderfully, sweetly, humanly Rose that his head spins with delight. He feels a bit out of practice, but there are these sounds, _brilliant_ little noises, coming from her and spilling over into his mouth, and it seems that she really doesn’t mind any of his fumbling or uncertainty. Her hand curves behind his neck, fingertips ruffling the fine hairs there as her head tips and – _oh_ , that’s even more brilliant, his wonderful, sweet little human.

The kiss becomes heavier and his teeth draw over her lip as his hips tilt against hers. She’s panting into his mouth when he pulls away and he realizes that both his hearts are racing, breath burning a trail down into his lungs like the first air after regeneration.

“Planet,” he breathes, “in the Mez – Mezine system.” He swallows and then grins as she kisses along the edge of his jaw. “They have Christmas once a month.”

She pulls back and beams up at him. “Perfect!”

Then he looks up, reaches up and plucks a berry, studying it for a moment before tossing it over his shoulder. She’s still smiling when he kisses her again, her arms wrapping around his neck as he lifts her up, letting her body fall flush against his, and he concludes that even if it’s not really Christmas, tradition always applies.  



End file.
